The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Garn’s escort led him on a winding course between the tables, then gestured him to the seat beside Shadimar and directly across from Sterrane. Garn took it gladly, unable to resist the allure of roast fowl, thick cream soup, and an array of vegetables.

  Baran greeted Garn cheerily. “Ah. The sleeper awakens at last. You missed the action.”

  “What happened?” Garn asked, more interested in the huge portions of food a servant dolloped onto his plate. Though he had meant his query to refer directly to Baran’s comment, Mitrian apparently misinterpreted. She addressed his other unanswered question.

  “You collapsed in front of the court.” Mitrian studied Garn with her soft blue eyes. “Are you well?”

  “Fine now,” Garn hoped to steer the conversation away from his welfare. The bruises from his crawl, climb, and fall began to ache again, and he shifted restlessly to find a comfortable position on the hard wooden chair. “Just needed some sleep, I guess. I’d stayed awake for a day, a night, and another day.”

  Mar Lon smiled, aware, as no one else in the room was, of what had kept Garn awake through the previous night. Sterrane remained silent, obviously still somewhat dazed by the circumstances and proceedings. Shadimar’s silence seemed natural and familiar. Garn could feel the wolf stirring beneath the table when his own fidgeting caused him to poke a furry side. Now that sleep no longer remained his top priority, the throb of his many wounds had become more noticeable.

  As the server wandered away to tend another latecomer, Garn ate ravenously, more than his share of the finest food he had ever tasted. Sterrane feasted with the same exuberance, but Shadimar passed food to Secodon beneath the table and seemed not to consume anything himself.

  When Sterrane had eaten his fill, and even Garn debated over a last serving of corn, a guard approached Mar Lon. They spoke in earnest tones for some time. Then the bard excused himself, leaving Sterrane in Mitrian’s care. The guard who had approached Mar Lon dismissed the musicians and the bear. At first, Garn thought the bard would sing again, and he smiled at the memory of Mar Lon’s previous concert. Yet the bard did not carry his instrument. Instead, he waved his fingers at one of the tables, and the Knights of Erythane joined him on the entertainment platform.

  Baran groaned.

  Garn turned his attention to the lieutenant. “What’s wrong?”

  Baran kept his voice low, pitched only for Garn to hear. “If the knights take part in the coronation, it’ll last halfway to the harvest. They’ll invoke every convention since the first king crawled from his mother’s womb.”

  “What’s coronation?” Garn watched as the servants cleared food away, rearranging tables and their occupants to open a lane from door to platform. Soon, only the head table remained in the way.

  Baran watched the servants work. “That’s when they give Sterrane his crown, and he officially becomes Béarn’s king.”

  “Oh.” Garn pondered. It seemed a simple enough feat to place a crown on a man’s head, even a man as large and tall as Sterrane. Though Santagithi had demanded obedience to himself and to his officers, the general cared little for formality and not at all for pomp. Not until Garn had become a Pudarian guard had he discovered that kingdoms tended to turn even the simplest tasks into stilted, rehearsed exchanges or hours of ceremony.

  One of the servants approached Sterrane, nudged from behind by his fellows. As he reached Mar Lon’s vacated chair, he prostrated himself on the floor at Sterrane’s feet. Accustomed to the dignified bows of the courtiers, Garn was wholly surprised by the maneuver. At first, he believed the servant had fainted. Apparently thinking the same, Sterrane leapt from his seat to the servant’s aid. Concern drove him to slip back into the language he had used almost exclusively for the past eighteen years, though badly. “You well?”

  The servant rolled his eyes to Sterrane, the nearness of the king sending him into shivering spasms of fear. “Majesty . . . I,” he stammered. “I just . . .” He froze there, avoiding Sterrane’s eyes, his own gaze measuring the distance back to his peers.

  Garn felt certain that Morhane had made the servants’ jobs difficult. The man’s terror made it clear that, not long ago, coming so near the king would have guaranteed punishment.

  Many silent moments passed. Finding Béarn’s heir on the floor, the courtiers and guards froze.

  Sterrane rose first, offering a hand to the servant for support. When the man remained in place, Sterrane seized an arm and hoisted him gently to his feet. The servant went rigid, eyes wide and jaw set, obviously torn between respect and the need to run.

  Garn exchanged a smile with Mitrian. They had for too long thought of Sterrane as a giant, harmless idiot to imagine men paralyzed with fear in his presence. A full night of sleep and the three glasses of wine Garn had downed with dinner allowed him to see the humor in the situation.

  Sterrane clapped his other huge hand to the servant’s back, continuing to support the man’s arm. He returned to Béarnese. “What can I do for you?”

  “Do for me, Sire?” The servant squeaked. “For me, Sire? Nothing for me. We just wondered . . .” He trailed off, glancing toward his peers for support. They shifted nervously, saying nothing.

  Many of the courtiers and dignitaries rose, politely craning to see the spectacle.

  “Wondered?” Sterrane repeated.

  “. . . wondered, Sire, if we could move your table a little to open the way for your coronation.”

  Sterrane’s brow furrowed. He glanced from the head table to the platform. The servant trembled in his grip. “You need my permission to move a table?”

  The servant flushed, his voice clear in the quiet that had descended over the dining hall in the wake of the entertainment. Even the conversations ceased as the court watched curiously to see how the new king handled the lowest of his subjects. “Well, Sire. That’s your decision, Sire. Usually not, but this move required you to stand, Sire.”

  Warmed by the wine, Garn nudged Baran and mimicked in a whisper, “Usually not, Sire, but this move required you to fling yourself on the floor, Sire.”

  Baran snorted, but he regained his composure before he laughed outright. Garn decided to make it his mission to provoke Baran back into the wild excitement that had made him seem silly back in the clearing. “You’re obviously feeling better,” Baran returned.

  “Sleep helped. And I don’t ache as much as I did.”

  “That’s the wine.”

  “Where?”

  Baran chuckled softly. “I meant the wine took some of the pain away. Where’d you get those wounds from anyway?”

  Garn thought it wiser not to reveal the treachery. “Sometime when we’re alone and we have a lot of time, I’ll tell you.”

  “I’ll take that as a promise.” Baran turned his attention back to the exchange between Sterrane and the servant.

  Garn followed the lieutenant’s gaze in time to see the servant trotting back to his fellows. Shadimar and Mitrian had risen. Baran and Garn did the same. Seizing a lip of the table, Sterrane personally dragged it into position. As its wooden legs skidded across the floor, the edge of the overly long cloth bunched on a lumpy object that had lain beneath the table, and fur poked between the weave. As the lace fluttered back into position, Secodon was revealed. The wolf slithered back beneath the table. The diners readjusted their chairs, sat back in place, and resumed their conversations.

  Baran motioned one of the servants over. He spoke rapidly in Béarnese. As the servant trotted off to attend to the lieutenant’s request, Mar Lon raised his hands for attention. The bard remained on the platform, and the Erythanian Knights fanned into a symmetrical formation. Each held a pike. Those to Mar Lon’s left clutched the haft in their right fists, and those to his right directly mirrored their partners. Helmets covered their heads, polished to a brightness that reflected the torchlight; but their stillness kept those highlights in position. Their pressed tabards covered dress tunics without a wrinkle, though they looked bulky over mail.

 
; Mar Lon cleared his throat, and the room fell silent. He lowered his hands. “As you know, we have gathered to . . .” The remainder of the speech strained Garn’s knowledge of Béarnese, and he abandoned attempts to follow the proceedings. Instead, he allowed Mar Lon’s pleasant voice to flow around him, comfortable with its pitch and tempo and not needing to understand individual words.

  “Do you see what I mean?” Baran whispered.

  “It’s not so bad,” Garn hissed back. “I like listening to Mar Lon.”

  “That’s because you haven’t heard the ‘responsibility of the high king of Béarn’ speech ninety times. And just wait. The knights will have their chance. Then you’ll wish you hadn’t awakened yet.”

  The servant who had chatted with Baran slipped up to his side, clearly nervous about disrupting the ceremony. He placed an unopened flask of wine on the table. Through the irregular thickness of glass, it looked nearly black.

  “Thank you,” Baran said.

  “Here.” The servant pulled a second flask from his shirt and set it beside the first. “Once the carpet goes down, I’m not bringing more.” He added in afterthought, “Sir.”

  Baran smiled. “This’ll do fine. Thank you.”

  The servant scuttled back the way he had come.

  Baran turned back to Garn, speaking just loudly enough to be heard by Garn without disrupting the ceremony. “The ‘sir’ was for your sake, you know. Yernya and I have known one another forever.”

  “What’s this?” Garn indicated the flasks.

  “Medicine.”

  “Medicine?” Garn glanced over at Mitrian, knowing she would not approve of his inattentiveness. But she sat in a thoughtful silence, her eyes riveted on Mar Lon. Shadimar seemed equally engrossed. Sterrane shifted restlessly, his gaze circumscribing the room before returning to Mar Lon. He stifled a yawn with great dignity.

  “It’s an import from the East. It’ll take away the pain of your wounds completely.” Uncorking the flask, he filled Garn’s glass as well as his own. “As a lucky side effect, it takes away the pain of sitting through long-winded speeches.”

  Mar Lon indicated the dining room doors, and they opened as one. Two sentries unrolled a thick yellow carpet that spanned the lane between the tables and ended at the platform. A dozen guards took paired positions beside it, their castle uniforms thinner and more crisply pleated than the military tan and blue worn by the soldiers in the courtyard.

  Garn stared at the glass Baran had poured for himself. “Aren’t you on duty?”

  Baran grinned at a private joke, then explained it. “Yesterday and last night I was. This morning Mar Lon commanded me . . .” He stiffened, imitating the Pudarian accent of the king’s personal bodyguard with impressive accuracy, “. . . Lieutenant, you’re officially off duty now. You can remove your court colors and relax for the day. Or you can walk the south grounds for six consecutive nights followed by a beating, a bludgeoning, and a month-long fast. I may add your execution for good measure. Make your choice.”

  Only two years after the Great War, Garn still held an aversion to anything Eastern, but he tasted the wine out of politeness. It had a sweet, comfortable flavor, enhanced by a brace of unfamiliar spices. “That seems a bit extreme.” Enjoying the wine, he drained the glass.

  “In all fairness, I got rather insistent. But I’d been on patrol the night before Mar Lon sent me to you. Excitement kept me going in the clearing. And, of course, I couldn’t go to bed until the trials finished, which wasn’t until this morning and—”

  “Trials?” Garn lowered his empty glass.

  “Trials, yes. Did you think we’d crown Sterrane without removing his enemies first?”

  “You mean Rathelon and Koska?”

  “And a few others. Yes. We also freed a handful of political prisoners left by Morhane. There weren’t many. Morhane believed in removing his dissenters more permanently.” Baran sipped at his own wine.

  The news hardly surprised Garn. “His family, too, apparently.”

  Baran took a longer pull, shrugging to obviate the need to talk with his mouth full. He swallowed. “My father died in that coup, and I hate even the memory of it. Morhane had no right to be king. I despise his decision to slaughter so many every bit as much as I treasure Sterrane’s escape. But taking a throne does require ending the previous line. Eventually, Sterrane’s going to have to terminate Morhane’s descendants. Luckily, he only has to deal with one. I don’t envy his need to kill a child, but to do otherwise would be folly. It would mean making the same mistake as Morhane: leaving an enemy and a figurehead alive.”

  The turn of the conversation saddened and unnerved Garn. While Baran refilled the glasses, Garn recalled the moments when he had believed Miyaga’s death necessary. He wished he had gathered the coldness and courage to perform the deed. Her slaying might have become just one more murder plaguing his conscience, and he would have done his part to protect innocent Sterrane from suffering the guilt. “So Rathelon’s already been handled?”

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘handled.’” Baran took another sip. “He was banished, along with Koska and the others.” Obviously bothered by the king’s decision, Baran nearly emptied his second glass in one gulp.

  Dizzied by the speed with which he’d consumed his own last drink, Garn savored the Eastern wine more slowly. “You would have had Rathelon executed, wouldn’t you?” Garn knew he would have seen to Rathelon’s death in Sterrane’s place. Something about the banished captain reminded him distinctly of the Eastern enemies he had battled on the Western Plains.

  “I won’t question the king’s judgment.” Baran dodged the inquiry.

  “Fine. Don’t question. Just tell me what you would have done if you were Sterrane.”

  “I’m not Sterrane. And it’s not for me to imagine such a thing.” Baran took another huge sip. He looked past Garn, suddenly intent on the proceedings he had dismissed moments ago.

  Garn smiled, feeling contented, despite the topic. As Baran had promised, the wine did ease most of the pain. What remained scarcely bothered him. The razor edge of alertness had disappeared from his consciousness; and, for once, he did not miss it. He trusted Mar Lon to roust every potential Morhane supporter. With Rathelon and the other enemies dispatched, Sterrane and his companions had nothing to fear. “Just pretend you’re six again. It’s your turn to play king and Sterrane’s to play court guard.”

  Baran returned his gaze to Garn. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  Garn finished the last swallow. “No.”

  “Very well.” Baran lowered his voice further, though the booming speeches of knights and bard already fully drowned their exchange. “I’d have killed Rathelon. Given the chance, I’d have done it with my own hands.” Baran poured Garn another drink, then emptied the flask into his own glass. He stiffened, abruptly realizing his mistake. “Not that I think Sterrane should have done it himself. Zera’im’s blessing.” He invoked the Western god of honor. “That’s the price you pay for a fair king. I’d rather a few sentences that seem too light than Morhane’s standard beheadings and hangings.”

  Garn looked at Baran, and both men smiled. Garn had seen and heard enough to know that he liked Sterrane’s lieutenant. When he worked, he worked with full dedication. And, apparently, he became equally committed to his play. Garn liked the balance every bit as much as the deep-seated loyalty he knew Baran held for his king. The aftereffects of the wine also left him feeling happy, frivolous, and benevolent at once. He wanted to tell the guard how good he felt about leaving a close friend in his hands, wanted to encourage the responsibility that Baran had already taken upon himself.

  But before Garn could find the words, he found the need for another drink. This time, he poured.

  * * *

  The coronation lasted longer than Garn’s patience, and he quickly tired of the politics. To him, even the finery and indulgences were not worth the tedium of becoming a king. The wine kept his pain at bay, but it also sp
urred a need to urinate that became nearly irresistible. It seemed to Garn as if his bladder might burst before a change in Mar Lon’s tone drew even his eye to the ceremony. A moment later, he realized that everyone else, including Mar Lon, had his or her attention fixed on the door. Garn followed their gazes to a boy who traveled the length of the walkway. A satin pillow balanced on his forearms, cradling a gold circlet. The light of myriad torches winked and sparked from its surface; apparently the page was quivering. As he arrived before the platform, Mar Lon gestured to Sterrane.

  Sterrane glanced briefly at Garn, and his eyes betrayed uncertainty. Baran reached across the table and gave the heir’s hand an encouraging squeeze, knocking over a salt bowl with a clumsiness attributable to the wine. Shadimar nodded in encouragement, saying nothing.

  The instant Sterrane’s foot sank into the carpet, the room fell completely silent. The guards shifted, falling into a well-rehearsed backup pattern around the platform and along the walkway. Sterrane moved up between Mar Lon and the page. The boy knelt, head bowed, circlet offered to the massive new king.

  Mar Lon spoke directly to Sterrane, but his voice remained clearly audible. “Sterrane Valar’s son, your majesty, welcome home. Our swords are in the service of Béarn and yourself. May your reign prove long and . . .”

  “. . . beautiful,” Garn and Baran whispered simultaneously. Both men buried their faces in their hands to suppress their laughter. For quite some time, Garn studiously glanced at every other person in the room, knowing a single glimpse of Baran’s face would send them both over the edge into hysteria. His view gave him an interesting perspective of the room. Despite the solemnity of the knights and guards on duty, the courtiers and off-duty guards smiled and drank at least as much as the lieutenant and himself.